


Seventeen

by Jenwryn



Category: Loveless
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-02
Updated: 2009-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-23 03:24:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That's when Ritsuka breaks. That's when something snaps inside him; rips apart and shatters almost springingly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seventeen

Ritsuka's sixteen when it happens; almost seventeen. Up until then the entire concept gives him sharp pause and teeters, unsteadily, uneasily, at the base of his skull, even though he has long ago come to accept his role as Sacrifice. Not that that, itself, doesn't remain something of a backwards concept, if a moment's thought is spent upon it: anyone can see that the Master is the victim.

Ritsuka doesn't know. Ritsuka's never known.

Certain concepts might have become second nature but they've never ceased to be bound up in Soubi, and Soubi is Ritsuka's every thing and yet out of his reach. It's he himself, himself Ritsuka, who pushes the older man, his fighter, his protector, his Only, away at arm's length. It's he himself who does it, though Ritsuka isn't even sure how, let alone why, just knows that some things have never changed after all this time and he might as well still be twelve years-old for all he understands their relationship. Ritsuka loves, loves so very much, but cannot let himself be loved in return because he cannot, _can not,_ he fails at it; it's all he wants, all he needs, but he knows he'll never be enough. That's what he tells himself even after all this time. And he knows that Soubi knows. He sees it in his eyes. As much as Ritsuka is loved, as much as he sees Soubi's devotion written on his face for the world to view, seamless, warm, devotion, underneath it all – underneath it, buried so deep that the boy is almost one hundred percent certain that the man isn't even aware of it himself – the stinging shadow of some need unfulfilled.

Ritsuka cannot love enough.

No-one can.

Love fails. Love loses. Love comes apart at the seams and the pieces shatter like a thousand mirrors fallen from a six-storey building.

It's not enough.

And then he's almost seventeen. Ritsuka can't even recall the exact details, not the morning after, not ever. There's a broken coffee mug involved, and splatters of boiling water, making Ritsuka wince with pain, and shift awkwardly on the spot in pain. There's the evening news screaming at him even though he's already suggested, politely, at least three times, that it be turned down or off (not an order, always, never). And there's anger, obscure, bubbling, rolling anger, anger at something that Ritsuka can't even define, can't even put his finger on, just anger and _there_ and so fucking much of it. And he's yelling something, though he isn't sure what. And Soubi's face, Soubi's beautiful, beautiful, damned beautiful face does that indefinable _thing_ it so rarely does, and he gives that smile of his, inclines his head, murmurs some shit about _yes_ and _Master_.

That's when Ritsuka breaks. That's when something snaps inside him; rips apart and shatters almost springingly. He can't say why, or how, but suddenly he's pushing – not exactly violently, but oh-god-don't-mess-with-me firmly – and he's shoving Soubi back against the refrigerator with such force that the milk and juice bottles on the door-shelf inside clank in protest, and an old photograph _(Seimei and Ritsuka, smiling, lost, surreal, constructed)_ slides to a crooked slant and then drops completely to the floor. Ritsuka's fists are in Soubi's shirt, and Soubi is all wide-eyes and flushed face and moaning. Ritsuka barely notices, though that's all he can see, that's all he can feel, that's all he's aware of; breathes in, tastes. He bites and kisses and claws, and it's violence and it's non-violence, and it's discipline and it's self-defence, and it's teeth and lips and tongues, and hands pressed up beneath shirts and down below waistlines, and all Ritsuka knows is that Soubi's eyes are telling him he's finally, finally, finally fucking got it _right_ , finally, oh god _finally_. Even when Ritsuka's hands rest in one place again, it's still right, still good, because now he's understood.

All loves are different.

Some loves are enough.

Ritsuka's finally found the colours of the one here before him.

“Mine,” Ritsuka gasps. “Mine.”

And Soubi breathes and breathes and clings and nods.


End file.
